One Night Stand
by Queen Kez the Wicked
Summary: Each chapter is a DIFFERENT one shot.. newest addition: PieMush fluff from the Refuge summer secret slash. For Dragonfly.
1. Summer Nights and Broken Broadcasts

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The challenge…

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From: ShortLilQT721@aol.com  
**To: **fyrepower42@hotmail.com

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Subject: Your challenge dahling

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Date: Sun, 2 Mar 2003 14:47:59 EST

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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Here you go... Have fun with this one!  
  
Requirements:  
  
TIME: Present day fic  
  
PAIRING (Choose two):   
Oscar   
Grown up!Les   
Boots   
Swifty  
  
MUST INCLUDE OR REFERENCE (At least eight of the following):   
A loofah  
a swing set  
headphones   
strawberries   
a Snitch action figure   
a golf cart  
Pickles  
Super glue  
Cold chinese food  
A green highlighter  
  
ALSO MUST INCLUDE OR REFERENCE: At least four people in NJL  
  
FOLLOWING LINES MUST BE USED:  
  
"Bet they didn't do it like THIS in 1899"  
  
"The newspaper told me to do it!"  
  
"Secrets, secrets are no fun, Secrets are for everyone!"  
  
Good luck!  
  
~S 

__

The result…

Summer Nights and Broken Broadcasts

The swing set was still damp from the previous night's rain, the bars encrusted with a thick coat of reddish brown rust that flaked off when he ran his fingers along it. He wasn't sure whether the swing, a rough, unforgiving plastic board would even hold him, but after the initial screaming and groaning at his sudden weight it settled down and even let him move slowly back and forth. 

"Want me to push you?" The other's voice was soft and kind, but Swifty felt like he could punch him for breaking the solemn silence. Instead he pushed himself off from the ground, ignoring the spots of rust that rained down onto his unruly hair. 

Boots stood uncomfortably in the patch of weeds next to the swing set, watching his boyfriend sink deeper and deeper into himself. A movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. He quietly abandoned his post by the swing set and picked his way among the wreckage of the backyard to where two squirrels were playing, running in and out of an old golf cart. As soon as he had taken a few steps they sensed him and bolted, but Boots made his way along, only stopping when he was practically inside the old rig. The sudden absence of creaking and the burning at the back of his neck told Boots that Swifty had stopped swinging, and was twisted around, staring after him. 

The golf cart must have once been a brilliant shade of white, as most golf carts are, but now bugs crawled and lichen grew among the chipped layers of dirt and grime. The brake pedal was missing, the windshield broken, and one door hung crookedly on its hinges, the other completely missing. 

"Don't touch it," Swifty said, and Boots jumped, not having heard his approach. Swifty stood at his shoulder, his eyes sad. "Don't disturb it." 

Boots didn't reply, but after a moment he placed a tentative arm around Swifty's shoulders, and was glad when the other leaned into the embrace. 

"Do you want to go now?" Boots asked quietly, his face buried in Swifty's hair. Swifty nodded silently, and the two turned to leave.

A screen door swung open, slamming harshly against cheap wood.

"Hey! HEY! 'Oo the 'ell ahr you?" Boots froze, his arm dropping from Swifty's shoulders, and stared at the burly man framed at the backdoor of the trailer. Dirty jeans and a stained white tank top were in sharp contrast to his piercing blue eyes, which stared the two down angrily. Boots felt himself grow smaller and took a step back.

"From poor Asians to white trash," Swifty remarked.

"You didn't tell me someone lived here."

"You didn't ask." 

"HEY! Git th' fuck offa my land!"

"Who's out there, hon?" A sugary, lilting voice interrupted. 

"Nothin' babe." 

Another figure joined the man, this one slender and still tying a robe onto her body. She too stared out at them, and Swifty squirmed under her gaze. The woman drew closer to the man, nearly hanging off of his arm, one hand twining through his dirty blonde hair. 

"Want me to get the gun, baby?" 

He grunted in reply, and that's when Swifty and Boots fled. 

"Goddamn faggots," Spot Conlon growled, taking the gun roughly from his wife. "Bolt th' doors 'n case we didn't scare 'em enough." Skylar "Falco" Conlon hurried to obey, her pink slippers slapping on the worn linoleum floor. 

+

They drove in silence for a good time, back to the city. Boots gripped the steering wheel tightly, listening to WBZ while Swifty hunted through the mess in the backseat. Neither seemed willing to break the silence that had only built up since they had made their escaped and sped off in Boots' old Toyota, an '86 Golf. He turned it up at the traffic report, then pulled into a gas station. 

"Want anything?" 

Swifty brushed a soda can off his thigh and shook his head. A moment later he cranked down his window and yelled for Boots' attention, who was only a few yards away. He returned. Swifty stuck his head out the window, twisting it to an awkward angle.

"See if they have any pickles. Ko-"

"Kosher Dill, I know, I know," Boots smiled and ruffled his hair, then disappeared into the store. Swifty glared after him, but his mock annoyance disappeared quickly. He plopped back onto the seat, removed an old 'Rolling Stone' magazine from under himself and rolled the window up. Under the seat he found what he had been searching for and climbed back over into the front. 

-

Kosher Dill, the kind with the bird on the label - somehow there was a bottle in the gas station. Right next to the milk. Boots reached forward to pull the freezer door open, only to find his hand plunging into empty - but frigid - air. A short woman with highlighted brown hair stood to his right, holding the door open with her foot while she reached in and snatched the jar from its resting place. Boots watched with a gaping mouth as she kicked the door shut (thus smashing his fingers) and shuffled off without a second glance in his direction. 

"Excuse me?"

She turned and studied him with curious green eyes. "Yeah?" 

Now that he had her attention, Boots wasn't exactly sure what to say.

"Ah… I was trying to get that pickle jar." 

"What, this?" She glanced down at the bottle. "Hmm. Too slow, eh?" Boots shifted uncomfortably. "What do you need it for?" She asked after a second, still eyeing him with that curious manner.

Boots glanced around, as if to make sure Swifty wasn't in the store.

"Well… see… my boyfriend is kind of depressed, and-"

"Boyfriend, eh?" she took a packet of gum from the adjourning rack and popped a piece in her mouth. She chomped at it loudly, studying Boots, then tossed the jar at him. "Ehh, just take it."

Boots fumbled and almost dropped the jar. He secured it under his arm and let his features relax in relief. 

"Hey, thanks… thanks Shortie," he said to the woman, immediately regretting his choice of a nickname. But she just shrugged, accepting it.

"Sure," she said, blowing a bubble and then stalking off again. "Sure."

-

"Here," Boots said, slipping back into his seat, the cushion bouncing a little. "Comfort foods. Pickles, Tropica orange juice - oh, looks like you found the cold Chinese food." 

Swifty fished around the lo mien with his chopsticks and nodded. 

"Chicken," he said. "It's a little moldy-ish, but still tastes good."

"Of course." Boots paused. "You ok?" 

Swifty pretended to be very interested in picking up an onion. Eventually he put the grease stained box down and opened the pickles. "Yeah." 

Boots didn't answer, just waited for Swifty to talk. He flipped through the 'Boston Globe' he had just picked up for the comics. 

"I mean," Swifty continued, finishing off a pickle. "I don't know what I expected. Not… you know… not my family, but certainly not… 'that.'"

Boots looked up from 'Foxtrot.'

"A lot change?"

"No, you know? Nothing changed. Nothing." 

A pause.

"Do you want to head back? Rush hour is near over."

"No. Pickle?"

+

"Where are we going?" Swifty peered over his feet and through the windshield. He drained the last of his orange juice and threw it in the back, then turned to Boots, who was trying to get the FM radio to work. "Huh?"

"What?" Boots looked up. "Oh. Ah, Cambridge."

"Cambridge? Why?" 

"Dunno. Can I have another pickle?" Swifty obliged. "The newspaper told me to do it. They're having some kind of festival up there." He handed a section of the paper to Swifty, who scanned the lines describing the festival, marked with a green highlighter. 

"All It says is 'local festival.'"

"Yeah - it'll be good, they'll just have local stuff - food, crafts." He grinned, "beer." 

"I could go for a beer." 

"Here's another gas station. Wanna empty out?"

"Why not?"

"Do you really need me to list the reasons?"

"Good point. Pull in."

Boots pulled into a space next to the dumpster and hopped out of the car. He met Swifty's gaze over the top of the car, then both of them opened the side doors simultaneously. Boxes, food, cans, and the odd baseball glove immediately tumbled out to the pavement. 

"Ok, we'll each start on our own sides and work in towards the middle." 

"Sounds good." 

"Cambells soup?"

"Toss it."

"It's tomato…"

"Ok fine, throw it in the front."

"How long has it been since we cleaned this?"

"Uh…"

"Nevermind." 

"Nice headphones."

"Give me those!" 

Eventually the two just dove inside and dug furiously at the accumulated junk, throwing it out the doors without even glancing to see what they were getting rid of.

"Hey, how long you suppose this glue's been on the seat?" Swifty asked, reaching in for another pickle.

"You can see the seat? Damn, you're ahead of me."

"Pass me that hammer, maybe I can chip it off." 

"Here. Ah, we're running low on pickles," Boots informed him, taking one of the last ones. "Well, the car's almost empty anyway. We should be heading out. Tonight's the festival's opening night."

"Ok - wait, hold on." Swifty tossed an arm full of junk into the dumpster and hurried into the gas station's store. Boots emptied his own load into the trash and then brushed a few crumbs off the now-recognizable backseats before sinking into his own seat. A moment later Swifty came running out, stopped by the dumpster for a moment, then jumped into the car. With a grin he fastened a small, flat, yellow tree-shaped object to the rearview mirror.

"Vanilla," he said simply. "Smells good." 

"Why'd you take the bag off?"

"What, you aren't supposed to?"

"Well, no, but… never mind. We're off!" Boots made his way back onto the highway and happily split the last pickle with Swifty.

-

Swifty woke to the quiet strains of Bob Seger, Boots tapping his fingers in time on the steering wheel. Swifty played with the ends of a fleece blanket they had discovered in the back, idly watching the head and backlights of approaching cars play off the windshield. On the dashboard lay a discarded, half eaten container of strawberries, bought by the roadside at dusk. Boots drifted slowly off to an exit as the song wound to its closing, chewing thoughtfully on one of the stems. Once off the highway Swifty rolled his window down, letting night's cool wind wash over his face and ruffle his hair. He closed his eyes, enjoying it.

"We've got tonight," he murmured.

"Let's make it last," Boots replied without skipping a beat. The station switched from a commercial to something louder, and he turned it off without another word. "Almost there," Boots informed him. 

Downtown Cambridge had bright plastic signs hooked on almost every telephone pole leading down main street, all advertising for the three day festival. Boots parked as close as he could and then rolled from the car, stretching in the middle of the road and gazing down to where various tents, lights, and music could be heard. Swifty followed suit, bending over to retie a shoelace. Boots stole up behind him and snaked an arm around his waist, Swifty responded much the same way, burying his head in Boots' neck a moment and just smiling. The day's earlier troubles seemed to melt away with each step they took along the sidewalk.

-

"Well, I bet they didn't do it like _this_ in 1899," the girl mumbled before throwing back another drink. She was motioning to Swifty and Boots. "So open, so open." Boots was glad his skin tone hid the heat rising to his face.

"Mondie, hush," her companion hissed. "If you were sober you'd be practically marrying them yourself."

"A… a just point. Get me another."

"Another what, miss?" The bartender looked up from polishing a shot glass.

"Another…….. Another."

"What's wrong with Mondie?" A girl to the man's left asked. "I haven't seen her this drunk since she found out that you and Blink…"

"Nothing," Mush said firmly.

"Aw, come on… is it a secret?"

"No."

"Yah it is… secrets, secrets are no fun, secrets are for everyone! Come on, tell me." 

"Stop it, Rosie. Mondie, no, put the glass down…"

"Come on," Boots whispered to Swifty. "I'm sure there's another beer tent around here." 

"No, no," Swifty murmured back, an amused smile lingering on his face. "Let's stay here." 

He sat down next to Rosie with a grin in her direction, careful to keep his hand clamped on Boots' own. Boots settled down on a stool of his own and nodded to the bartender. 

"Ah, Red Hook?" 

"Of course."

"Boots, did you leave a window down?"

"No… why?"

"I'm just worried about that air-freshener, is all…"

"Don't dwell on it." He paused, then grinned, raising his glass and quoting softly. _"Why should we worry? No one will care. Look at the stars, so far away."_

Swifty raised his own glass and smiled. "Cheers."

"Cheers."


	2. The Rake

**The Rake**

Rating: PG, graphic descriptions and theme.  
**Pairing: **None.  
**Author's Note: **None.

+

I hadda family, ya know. They was nice, yeah. Big dough. Five sistahs, t'ree bruddahs. Pop, 'e worked inna fact'try. Me ma stayed 'ome, she took care a' the little uns. I wasn't the oldest, nah, not the youngest eiddah. The middle kid, ya know 'em? I was forgotten lots. Maybe that's why I went up n' left. Dunno. Damn it's gettin' hard ta breathe, can ya get off me?

_Swifty blinked down at his friend. He didn't move - he wasn't even touching the poor bastard. Snoddy's eyes rolled wildly, focusing with difficulty. Swifty shifted his position in the crate and glanced worriedly to the alleyway's entrance. Help would arrive soon. He didn't dare to leave, not with his companion in the condition he was. _

Keep me talkin', Blink.

_Swifty didn't correct him, just looked back down and smoothed the hair away from his sweat-peppered brow. Snoddy closed his eyes with a sigh. Swifty jumped up, thinking this to be his last breath. He was wrong._

I didn't talk much, did I? Guess I need to make up fer dat, yeah? I was jus quiet, right? Nevah got much of a say in, in me family n' all. But I was obsoivant, real obsoivant. Arhg… dat hurts…

_Blood seeped through the dirty rag strewn across Snoddy's chest. The stained cloth mercifully covered a long gash on his collarbone, and further down a jagged piece was missing from his chest. A dripping knife lay dormant near his right hand. Swifty tore his eyes away from the knife and stared back at Snoddy's face, which was growing paler by the second. A thin line of saliva, mingled with blood, was beginning to show itself at the corner of his mouth. Swifty had seen things like this before, and he knew it wouldn't be long. The boy was well beyond help, no doctors or prayers could do a shred of good. Swifty heard shouts from a distance, and sat up straighter. Others were coming. It had been a long time. _

Snoddy heard them too.

Heah dat, Mush? I t'ink it's the angels. Theys callin' me.

_For the first time Swifty spoke._

Ain't no angels, Snoddy. 

_Snoddy didn't seem to hear him. He continued, voice fading out._

No, no… it's me family. Callin' fer dinnah, yeah, dinnah. You evah meet me family, Pie? Yeah well ya should. Mum'll bake ya somethin'. She's always bakin'. Bread or… pie. Somethin'. 

_Footsteps slapped down on the wet pavement. Swifty saw shadowed forms approach the alley's entrance. He searched Snoddy's face desperately, looking for any signs of life. His hands renewed their grip on the crate below him. Snoddy's eyes stared off distantly and started to cloud over. His hands twitched every so often. He seemed to be in an entirely different place. _

It's blindin' dammit, blindin'! Shit, I dun wanna go… not now, not now. Got so much ta do. Gotta beat Race in pokah. Sell a hunn'ed papes. Give Swiftah back all dat money I stole from 'im…

_Snoddy's mouth continued to move, but no sound came forth. More blood spilled slowly instead, and his eyes rolled completely back to reveal bloodshot whites. A terrible stench rolled through the air and Swifty sighed. One more street rat's life in the gutter._

Rising smoothly from the crate and holding his breath, Swifty worried with the dead boy's pockets until he found what he was looking for, a handful of quarters and a bill or two. Snoddy had stolen a dreadful amount from him. Checking quickly over his shoulder to where a few figures approached, Swifty then picked up the knife lying by Snoddy's side and wiped the blade off on Snoddy's shirt before pocketing it. 

"Swifty!" Jack was the first to arrive. Of course. Had to appear concerned about 'his boys.' Swifty put on the best expression of despair that he could and turned around to face Jack.

"Yer too late, Cowboy. Too late."

Jack jogged closer, then recoiled back as he hit the smell. He ignored the body.

"Bumlets tol' me."

Swifty nodded, he had seen the other boy run off to get help. Jack frowned.

"Didn't say what happened though…" 

Swifty stared at him.

"Shoah 'e did," he said calmly, soothingly. "Guy from Queens. The one ya don't like."

"Scout?"

"Yea. Attacked 'im right in de open. Heard 'im screamin' and dragged 'im in heah. Scout split right away." 

Jack looked to Bumlets, who had appeared at his side, for confirmation. Bumlets said nothing, just looked from Snoddy's prone form to Swifty. His gaze lingered on the latter. Swifty ignored the accusing glare in his eyes and shrugged to Jack.

"I woulda gone ta get help," he said, then his eyes met Bumlets'. "But," he continued, the coldness in his tone enough to make even Jack shiver. "What kinda…" Hesitation. "Newsie would I be at leave 'im? Alone… unguarded… just because one killah ran away don't mean annudah won't come." 

Bumlets leapt forward with a roar, but Jack, with his strict 'code of honor,' grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back. He looked between the two uneasily.

"Ah… dere's been 'nuff violence taday. Let's jus get back to the Lodging 'ouse." He turned and left, but Bumlets wouldn't move until Swifty had taken a step forward too. He made a quiet comment when he passed the Hispanic boy, a malicious glint in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. 

"Sticky 'ands only get ya in trouble. Hope ya've washed yers lately." 


	3. Always

**Always**

Rating: G

****

Pairing: Mondie/Mush

****

Author's Notes: Written in honor of Mondie, for Mondie - do you forgive me now?

+

"Face it, pal. You got burned. Badly."

Aaron kept his face over the coffee mug. He liked it when the steam rose up from the liquid, the gentle clouds would fill his nose and swirl around his face, warming ruddy cheeks. Outside the rain poured, sometimes changing to sleet, sometimes to hail, but always there to pound relentlessly on cobblestone and face.

The coffee shop on Broadway Street glowed in bright contrast to the rest of the night. Inside, couples gathered to huddle together and close out the cold, and a few loners sprawled around with crossed legs and open newspapers. 

Aaron's gaze finally turned to his friend Christopher, who was toying with the whipped cream on top of his hot chocolate. Aaron cupped his hands around his own drink and took a tentative sip. Too hot. 

"You gotta deal," Christopher continued, oblivious to the fact that he was talking to empty air. "Just put it behind you and find someone else, for crying out loud. So she ran off with another guy. You can take it, you're a man. Your hairdresser doesn't stick a bowl on your head to do your hair."

Aaron snorted in spite of himself, creating a ripple in the coffee.

"Today is our anniversary," he said somberly.

"Aaron. AARON. People don't have anniversaries when they _aren't together!_" 

"We'd always come here," Aaron went on, almost thoughtfully. "No matter what, we'd always make it. Once she cut work." He smiled. "And I left in the middle of a golf tournament. Or a big office shindig, another time. She'll make it," he finished confidently. 

"Well I hope you don't expect me to stay until Hell freezes over," Joe muttered. Aaron's only response was to take another sip of his coffee.

"I think I burned my tongue," he said.

"Honestly. _Aaron._" Christopher's voice was sharp enough to catch his friend's attention at last. He stood up and began to shoulder on his coat. "She's not coming," he said again, as his farewell. Aaron silently watched him leave, then glanced to his right and saw an old man looking at him with a pitying expression.

"She always comes," Aaron told him with a shrug.

+

"Soup shouldn't be this hot," Dean Portman grumbled to the empty chair across from him. "My tongue has melted away."

"I agree," said the voice that filled the chair. "By the time it stops boiling, we're back on duty."

Dean tried his luck on a rock hard breadstick. Joining the Army had been one thing, that had been easy enough - almost too easy. A free chance to get away from his nagging parents and prying neighbors, a free ticket out west to see the country (and perhaps the world) and a free meal card to never worry about cooking anything for years to come. Except the meal card had been the drawback. For the fifth time that week Dean caught himself daydreaming about his mother's own breadsticks, hot and flaky, with garlic and butter and… he stopped and peered out through half-lidded eyes to his newly arrived friend, who was looking to him expectantly.

"Afternoon, Rome," he managed between mouth fulls. "Where we you last night, liberatin' Germany again?"

"Hitler has nothing to this good lookin' soldier," Rome told him, indicating himself with a cocky smile. "It's only a matter a' time before they send me over, and then we can all go home for good."

"I'm sure," Dean said with a snort. 

"Listen, Portman, you up for some ball during break? Sid found us a new catcher, and I hear he's mi-i-ighty good."

"Nah," Dean said, brushing some crumbs off his uniform. "I need to be somewhere. Besides, it looks like it's going to rain."

"Hope not." Rome frowned and gnawed on a breadstick. "Where you off to?"

"Well… Jone's Port."

"Why would you want to g-oh, no, no, no, no, not this again." Rome put down his break. "I can't let this happen again."

"Well what do you want me to do?" Dean asked angrily. "Just, what, not show up for our anniversary?"

"Well it's not like anyone was there to celebrate it with you last year! Or the year before that! Come on, Portman, she was shipped off-"

"Not that far…"

"Not that far?! A thousand miles at least! The odds are better that she just hooked up with some other guy down wherever she is."

"Hawaii," Dean said, looking disgusted. An uncomfortable silence descended on the two.

"I can't miss it," he said finally. "I can't miss her. You don't get it, do you?"

Rome just stared in a mixture of disbelief and pity.

"She always comes."

+

"Skitts, not in here!" Jonathon "Mush" Meyers whined. "I don't want my clothes to smell like smoke!" 

Skittery scoffed. "How hoity-toity _is_ this girl you're stuck on? Even you smoke, Mush."

Mush glared. "Shove off," he grumbled. 

"Fine, fine, I'll put it out," Skittery mumbled something incoherently and tossed his cigarette into the sink, effectively dousing it. Mush straightened out his shirt and set his cap at a jaunty angle. 

"Beautiful," Skittery said dryly. "Now, if you'd just move so I can get my things…"

"Hush," Mush muttered. "One more minute." 

He took off his hat to re-comb his hair with a sigh,

"As if ya weren't lookin' doggy enough. That's about the hundredth time you'se done that!" Skittery reminded him. 

"What, is it a crime to want ta look nice?"

"Well… when you'se takin' up this much space, **yes!**" 

"Go then," Mush said hotly and moved aside.

"No, explain this goil again?" Skittery had slid into position and was working on his own hair.

"I met her last year, ta'night."

"Right, right…"

"Lemme finish! I was alone at the park and she found me there." There was a lengthy silence which Skittery didn't dare break.

"The short story is, we wanted ta keep seein' each oddah, but she tol' me that she worked all day - and her parents hardly ever let her outside. I dunno if they were worried 'bout safety or what."

"Strange," Skittery murmured.

"She said she'd be stuck at home all week, workin', takin' care a' her bruddahs. I tol' her I'd be at the park anyway." Another silence.

"…well?" Skittery asked after a few moments.

"She came. Each an' every time, she showed up. I've no clue how she did it."

Skittery looked impressed. Mush's voice turned bitter.

"There's more. The last time I saw 'er, we were talking about this night, tonight - one year a' bein' tageddah."

"When was that?"

Mush hesitated. "Six months ago."

Skittery whistled.

"What happened, she run off wid some punk? Jake's been lookin' pretty smug lately."

Mush scowled. "No. Her parents died."

"Oh," Skittery said in a small voice.

"She split right away, didn't even get a chance ta talk to me."

"So how'd ya find out?"

"Papes, the obits. And the smarts I'm famous fer." 

"If she's gone… what're you… what're you doin', gettin' ready to go out an', well, meet 'er?"

"This was the last place, last thing, we talked about. She'll remember, she'll come!" Mush insisted.

"Not in this rain she won't!" A passing voice called. Mush shrugged.

"From the sounds a' this, Mush, you'se workin' yerself up fer a failyah." 

"Nah," Mush said, and re-set his hat.

"You'se a lost cause."

"Wrong again - jus' a good lookin' fella."

Skittery laughed and made his way back to the bunkroom. Mush glanced up at the mirror and was surprised to see a worried expression on his face.

"She always comes," he told his reflection confidently, and the face broke into a grin.

+

Aaron stationed himself at a new table, this one right up against the window. He rested his forehead against the glass, feeling the cold moisture from outside bead on his forehead. He could barely see out now, but there wasn't much to see. A few dark shadows moving among the bigger, darker, shadows, briefly illuminated as they passed through the feeble glow of a street lamp. None gave the coffee shop a second glance; they had missions of their own. 

Aaron ordered another coffee and sat quietly, drumming his fingers on the tiny table. Someone up front announced that the shop would be 'closing shortly,' and for the first time that night, Aaron felt his pulse quicken. He moved his drink away and looked intently outside.

+

Dean sat on the deck at Jone's Port, beer in hand, watching the clouds carefully. Down below people where securing their boats and helping to batten down others. A few waiters were starting to bring in the umbrellas and chairs on the deck, but Dean showed no sign of moving. When it started to sprinkle he simply covered his beer with a hand and shifted his position. 

"Er… Sir?"

Dean waved his hand dismissively and let them take his umbrella away. The rain came down a bit harder.

"Sir, we have tables inside, if you-"

Dean shook his head, water droplets flying around. "Don't worry about it," he said softly. The waiter looked confused and leaned in. "I'm fine," he repeated. "Really… enjoy the rain, actually." The waiter nodded slowly and moved inside, presumably to tell his co-workers about the weirdo lounging out on the porch. Dean rose from his char and walked slowly to the railing at the edge of the deck. He looked out at the Californian coast, put his beer on the boards at his feet, and rested his elbows on the slick rail. Dusk was falling, and the darker it became, the faster his heart beat.

+

Mush wandered the outskirts of Central Park, wringing his hands behind his back. He shivered as he walked, freezing and drenched to the core, but determined none the less. Every once in awhile he would glance out to the street, then shake his head and return to a certain semi-covered bench and sit for awhile before becoming antsy and repeating the routine over again. 

Darkness was starting to fall and he knew he had to get back into the Lodging House before it was locked up for the night. His steps came more rapidly, he paced back and forth with his arms crossed and his head bent to shield the rain. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a figure pass through the shelter of a streetlamp, and he missed a breath.

+ + +

_"And through the rain she walked, wet hair framing a face of timeless beauty, steps measured and smile radiant. And she fled into the arms of the one she loved and wrapped her arms around him, afraid to let go for just a second, afraid that she would lose him again. And when the one form once more became two…_

'I always come,' barely a whisper.

'I know.'

Mondie could never stay away."


	4. Once Upon a Time in a Town Very Much Lik...

****

Once Upon a Time in a Town Very Much Like Yours

Rating: G  
**Pairing: **Cello/Dutchy  
**Author's Note: **Birthday fic for Cello. It's SUPPOSED to be random.

+

Part One: Problems and Suspicions Raised Between Two People on the Tenth Degree of Separation at Noon on a Tuesday

"How long has it been now?"

"Two days."

"I want the truth."

"…ok, a week and a half."

Keza looked up from the comics page of her newspaper. "Ten days!? That's ridiculous, Cel, even for you guys."

Rachel shrugged in a guilty manner. "It's not my fault."

"Oh, ok," Keza scoffed. "Hee hee. Lookit this panel of Foxtrot…"

+

"So she caught us kissing. No biggy, right? It didn't mean anything, right?" 

"Ughhh… I don't know!"

Specs sighed. "Yeah, I don't know either. But for her sake, let's pretend it didn't. Ok?"

"Specs, we've been pretending for weeks," Dutchy said, adding a handful of brown sugar to his oatmeal. "I'm sick of it."

"But are you sick of her?"

Dutchy stirred absently and imagined the face he hadn't seen in days. His hands itched for her silky hair, his eyes longed for her own. "No," he said quietly. 

"Then that settles it," Specs said briskly. He took a seat beside his best friend. "Listen. I know you think I'm always the strong one, but it's your turn. We have to forget about this, forget it ever happened. And you two have to fix everything up." He stood again with a pained look on his face. "I don't want to be cursed as the one who ruined a perfect relationship."

"It was my fault," Dutchy said. "You know it."

Specs left without answering.

Dutchy buried his face in his hands.

+

"I think you should talk to him." Keza had moved on to the Arts and Entertainment section. "Maybe he can explain, or something." She paused, thinking this statement over. "Ok, maybe he'll just give you jewelry. That'd be cool."

"It's not the same, Kez," Rachel said. "Jewelry is nice, but… when compared to love?"

"Whatever. Hey, you didn't tape over the Red Sox game, did you?" 

Rachel left without answering. 

+

"Oh, hey Specs."

"Hey, Kez. Listen, is Rachel here?"

Keza leaned against the doorframe studying the lanky boy with raised eyebrows. "Just the person she wanted to see."

"Please, I-"

"She's not here anyway. Want me to leave a message?" She took a step forward with a cynical smile. "Want to leave a kiss?"

"If this door opened outwards, I'd be slamming it into your face," Specs said bitterly. "Forget it." He turned to walk away. Keza remained in the doorway. 

"No message?" She called. 

"They should talk," he answered without turning back. 

She smiled again. "Yeah," she said. "I know."

+

(Beep.)

"Heyyyy Dutch, it's me. I hope you're still here. Wait. No I don't. I hope you're out, getting some fresh air! Stop sulking! But I've already said that. Anyway. Just calling to let you know that I'm gonna be out of town for a few days. I know I should have told you before I left, but I didn't want you to convince me to stay or something. Well, actually I did, but… shit… never mind. Talk to Rachel, ok? I want things to work out. You know that… and… I hope I don't want it more than you do. I left my cell phone at home so don't bother calling. See you in a few days."

(Click.)

+

(Click.)

"All messages…have been…erased. Beeeeep." 

Dutchy sat back and scraped the rest of his bowl clean. Nothing like lukewarm oatmeal to help the soul. Except for once he didn't feel any better. He couldn't keep his mind off of the kiss he'd shared with his best friend, actually their first kiss, contrary to what Rachel and her friends probably thought. Except whenever he replayed it in his mind, it was the feel of Rachel's lips that he remembered. He couldn't recall Specs' taste, and he didn't even know how that made him feel. Dutchy turned on the TV, which was tuned to Comedy Central, Specs' favorite. 

"Alright, alright, let's talk about guilt," the stand up comedian chuckled. "I mean, think about it. What's the use in the word? Have you ever really felt guilt? True guilt, with no other feeling? No little sinister chuckle out of the pleasure you got for whatever you did? It's like this goat I knew…"

He turned off the TV. Someone knocked at the door. Dutchy's heart leapt into his throat. He saw her face, heard her voice, smelt her scent all in an instant. With shaking knees he went and opened the door.

+

"Pathetic shovel," Keza muttered, and jumped up the final steps to the door to give Dutchy a healthy smack on the face. "What the hell are you doing inside? In your pajamas? With oatmeal on your face? Huh? HUH?!" 

Dutchy stared. He didn't know what to do. And his left hand was still glued to the door handle. He'd never had to face Keza without Rachel to control her before.

"I… I… uhh…"

"Yeah, that's right." Another cuff to the head. "Ugh, greasy hair," Keza said and wrinkled her nose. "Get out here. Wait, first, get dressed. Take a shower. Stop sulking and _do_ something! I'm sick of my roomy sulking, I don't need you as well. Come on, let's go. I'm not leaving until you do."

Dutchy stuttered a bit more and stepped back to let her in. She brushed past him with a push to his chest in the direction of the bathroom, she herself heading for the TV.

He heard her muffled voice as he shut the bathroom door behind him. "Ooh, I love this guy… he's the one that does the goat bit!"

-

****

Part Two: Problems and Other Complications That Happen at a Seemingly Chance Meeting of Two Certain People at a Park in a Certain Small City on a Delightful Autumn Day with a Chance of Snow

"Whoops, sorry! I… oh…" Rachel peered down at the figure she had just run into and blinked. "Er." 

Dutchy, clean, shaven, and oatmeal free, sat up and brushed his pants off. "Don't worry about it, Miss…" He too looked up. "Oh…"

There was a lengthy, awkward silence.

"Keza arranged this, didn't she?" Dutchy grumbled. He stood up with some effort.

Rachel shrugged. "Who knows? I thought she was still at home."

"Nah, she's at my house."

They fell silent again, each avoiding the other's eyes. They were both fine skirting the subject of the conflict, but neither could get the nerve to confront it.

Rachel finally cleared her throat. "A fine romance, this is." She frowned. That wasn't what she had meant to say.

Dutchy chuckled without mirth. "Yeah, a fine romance, with no kisses." He froze. Her eyes widened. That was _not_ the right way to broach the subject. What had made him say that?!

"You're as cold as yesterday's mashed potatoes," she spat. He looked confused and she reviewed her sentence over in her head. What the _hell?_

"We should be like a couple of hot tomatoes!" Dutchy protested, and winced. This conversation was starting to creep him out. He sat back down with a heavy sigh and dropped his head into its familiar location in his hands. He couldn't bear to look at her anymore. He felt that guilt wash over him again… and a new feeling… the sharp cut of regret.

"Lovely," he mumbled, and Rachel found herself moving closer to hear his muffled words. "Never, ever change."

"Dutchy?"

"Keep that breathless charm," he continued. "Cause… I love you."

She sat down beside him. "I'm awfully low," she admitted. "And… the world is cold. But…" she reached a tentative hand out to brush his hair away and touch his cheek. He began to raise his head, slowly. "Your cheek… so soft." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It touches my foolish heart."

His eyes met hers. "_My_ foolish heart," he corrected her. "There may be trouble ahead."

"Behind," she murmured.

He took a deep breath. "Let's face the music."

"We're humming a different tune!" 

"Let's face the music… while we still have that chance."

"Face the music… yeah…"

-

****

Part Three: When Recitations End and Normal Speech Has Been Restored and the Chance of Snow was Really Just a Lie

"I don't love him so get that out of your mind," Dutchy said quickly. Rachel opened her mouth to protest. "Don't say anything. You were thinking it, fearing it, or whatever. I don't love him. We're good friends! We were. Things are so… awkward now. I mean, well, not rea-… I don't _know_ what's happening! Ok, I know. I regret it. I can't breathe with the guilt and regret I feel. And every time I remember it… you replace him. You know?"

"Oh, shut _up_!" Rachel exclaimed, exasperated. "Stop talking and let me get a word in! I just don't think things are ever going to be the same! Look at what happened. How am I supposed to trust you? Never mind just around girls, now I have to chaperone you around guys? Around your _best friend_?! I don't want to do that! It's unfair to you. It's unfair to me."

"What, you think it'll happen again?" Dutchy felt traces of anger heat his cheeks. "Don't you understand what I'm going through?"

"Ohhh, don't you understand what _I'm_ going through?!"

Silence.

"I'm sorry?" He offered.

She looked up and read the sorrow in his eyes. Her voice was barely audible. "Lunch?"

+

Keza glanced around her newspaper to the couple talking passionately at a table near her. She smiled smugly and realized the answer to the piece in the crossword she was filling out. 'Lovebirds,' she scrawled, and burned her tongue on a sip of coffee.

+

Sitting by himself on the train to Portland, Specs pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window. He pondered. He mused. He thought about fate. He watched the baby girl across the aisle throw up on her brother. He smiled.

+

They talked.

-

****

Note from Kez: Happy Birthday my loved one! The lyrics from Part Two are lyrics from various love songs sung by Fred Astaire in different movies of his. (Songs like 'A Fine Romance,' and 'Cheek to Cheek,' etc.)


	5. End

****

End

Rating: PG  
**Pairing: **Skittery/Snitch  
**Author's Note: **Birthday fic for Lute. 'nuff said. 

"Skitts… you didn't sell with me today." 

Snitch's doe eyes widened into a carefully practiced pout. "Why didn't you come? You know we always sell together," he purred, and snuggled closer to his best friend. Skittery didn't answer. "I still love you," Snitch sighed. He brushed a lock of hair away from Skittery's eyes and kissed his forehead. His skin was cool. "You're cold. I'll get you another blanket. The others shouldn't be back for awhile."

Snitch got off the other boy's lap and went hunting for an extra blanket. Skittery remained still, slumped dejectedly in the ragged armchair. He didn't meet Snitch's eyes with Snitch returned.

"I wish you'd tell me why you're sad," Snitch said. He climbed back into a comfortable position and draped the blanket over them both. He stroked Skittery's hair again. "I hope it wasn't me. Was it? Aw… it must have been." Skittery still refused to answer. Snitch leaned forward and planted a kiss on his lips. He drew back and his eyes filled up. Skittery didn't even kiss back. He tried again, feverishly prying Skittery's lips apart with his tongue, desperate for some response. Skittery had never ignored him for this long before, not even when he was furious. _What did I do?!_

Racetrack and Kid Blink stopped at the door. Racetrack had a look of disgust on his face.

"Blink… how long now has Skitts been dead?"


	6. st louis

This fic sponsored by The Refuge's Summer Secret Slash 2007. This was written for Dragonfly, who requested the strange but adorable pairing of Pie/Mush and gave me three prompts to choose from... **1)**Walking a dog **2)**A block party and **3)**A road trip. The only other requirement is that the fic had to be fluff. Here is the result!

* * *

**st. louis  
**_for dfly_

* * *

**  
**

"We're lost."

"We are _not_ lost."

"Face it, we're lost."

Pie-eater looked over the top of the atlas with a sigh. "I knew I should've driven," he muttered.

"You can't drive stick," Mush reminded him without looking away from the road. "Look. Route 70. See the signs? We're fine."

Pie just rolled his eyes and shoved the map into the glove compartment, which was already packed to the brim with receipts, brochures, and not a few empty soda cans. It wasn't closing anymore, but boys are boys, and neither would ever volunteer to clean it out.

"You should clean the glove box out," said Mush. "Seeing as how you're not doing anything."

"The glove _compartment_ is fine," Pie said, kneeing it sharply. Something crunched.

Mush rolled his eyes and tried to concentrate on two things, merging onto the highway and not laughing at his boyfriend. Pie, who was staring sulkily out the window, was not helping matters, and Mush cracked a grin despite himself.

"I'm glad you think this is funny," Pie snapped, but his voice had no bite. He gave Mush a long look, during which the darker boy focused very hard on the car in front of him, feeling almost nervous. "It's that smile. I can be mad at you, but I can't be mad at that smile," he remarked finally, and turned back to the window.

Mush felt fingertips of heat on his cheeks but quickly regained control. Pie's compliments were sometimes awkward and heavy-handed – not to mention few and far between - and he was always worried that if he reacted in the wrongly, they would go away forever.

After a few miles of comfortable silence, Pie reclined his chair a bit and attempted to settle in for a nap. It was dusk, and the endless stretch of highway was tinged with that perfect, dusty summer light, but Mush forgoed the sun setting over the trees for a few glances at Pie's peaceful face.

Pie rarely looked so calm; in fact, usually his brows were knit together in a tight V that Mush teased would be permanent if he wasn't careful. Pie would have none of that. He was not like Mush. Pie was literal, matter-of-fact, and reliable. Mush was optimistic, spontaneous, and unpredictable. Pie needed Mush's whimsical nature and fascination with life, Mush needed Pie's steadfast nature to fall back on. One might think that Mush would get bored with Pie, or Pie irritated with Mush, but it didn't happen. They weren't perfect, but they were content, and sometimes very happy, and in life you must appreciate what you have and learn not to ask for or expect too much.

When, one night, tucked between the jersey sheets of Pie's queen size, Mush had suggested a roadtrip, he had done it half asleep, as if planning an adventure in a dream. Pie heard him and immediately started making lists and mapping routes in his head, and the next morning he could be found at the kitchen table with a huge atlas spread in front of him and a mug of coffee (black) steaming fiercely. Mush – who drank tea with milk and honey – was happy enough that Pie had agreed that he let Pie attack the maps with a highlighter, buy the guidebooks, and check off the lists. After all, Mush knew that he would be the one driving, and he would do what he wanted.

Decisions. Where Mush went with his gut, Pie made lists of pros and cons. One of these lists was taped on the dashboard. It was their itinerary, a neatly printed sheet of all the top-rated national parks that fit into Pie's carefully planned route. They had just under two weeks, and he had pieced together a logical trip that would hit all the best spots without straying too far from their set course.

Mush didn't mind the outdoors, but the Great Smokey Mountains were not on his short list, and so instead of heading south after they left New York, Mush waited for Pie to be distracted with the radio, and then shifted their course just a smidge to the West.

"Oops," he'd said with a barely suppressed smile. Pie had thought it was an accident, which was just as well. Mush had long since decided that he was going to see the St. Louis arch if it killed him. Like Pie, he had it all planned out. He had daydreamed about the moment for weeks, while lying in bed, or on the subway, or in the shower. They would go to the top of the arch. They would gaze out at the city laid at their feet. And they would embrace tightly, and kiss, and it would be the best kiss of his life.

He replayed this image through his head once more and then allowed himself another look at his love. But he lingered too long, and one of Pie's eyes cracked open, catching him in the act. Pie smiled, a sly, sleepy smile, and Mush's heart bubbled up in his chest.

He turned back to the road a second too late, and didn't see the Jeep until he was just about on top of it. Mush had hit cruise control at about seventy and as he swerved to miss the car, the Jetta went careening off the road and down a short hill before jerking to a stop in a ditch. The airbags went off, then deflated, and smoke billowed out of the hood at an alarming rate.

Mush sat straight with his hands still gripping the wheel and his eyes locked onto the obscured windshield in front of him. He was torn between a feeling of immense relief, and absolute horror. He didn't dare look to his right.

Pie breathed heavily, wide-eyed and sweating. He fumbled for the door handle and pulled it sharply, but the door was only able to open about a foot before hitting some branch and getting stuck. But the fresh air seemed to do him some good, and though his face did not quite return to its normal color, it did try.

They sat like this, Mush staring ahead and Pie at the ground, for a full minute. Their bizarre meditation was broken only by the distant scream of police sirens. Pie blinked, as if waking up, and straightened. The sirens came closer, and with them, the promise of flashing lights, loud questions, paperwork, stretchers, and hospital coffee. Pie took a deep breath. Blue lights danced on the trees above them, and a megaphone blared to life in all its static glory.

Before it was too late, before his-two second moment was lost, Pie leaned over and kissed the shock right off of Mush's mouth. And Mush slowly, hesitantly, allowed himself to look at Pie, and when he saw only love and relief in the other's brown eyes, smiled just a little, and licked his lips, tasting not St. Louis and its cool blue steel but something far, far better. It was the kiss he had been waiting for.


End file.
